Hollow Rock

27

1

WE STEAMED INTO the city just as the blues began oozing up out of the juke joints into the white establishments lining Beale Street. It was a rare occasion when my father invited my mother and me along on one of his political trips. But he said he felt I was old enough now to share some of his boyhood memories of growing up in Memphis before hopping a freight at sixteen and never looking back.

Despite having to meet the demands of the weeklong Governors’ Conference, my father found time some afternoons and evenings to escort my mother and me around the city. While evenings were family affairs devoted to fine restaurants, opera houses, and theaters, the afternoons were bachelor outings highlighting the seedy underbelly of the city. Mama would have thrown a conniption if she’d known the Governor, as she called him, was dragging me down to Beale Street and introducing me to block after block of drinking, gambling, prostitution, and voodoo.

But my initiation into manhood was never my father’s intent. He just loved music and sought the latest sounds in the honky-tonks and gentleman’s clubs thriving in the hurly-burly of what respectable folk called that iniquitous thoroughfare. We saw duets, trios, bands, and even a brave choir from Beale Street Baptist. The groups were performing recent compositions of everything from hillbilly to jug, from ragtime to lively spirituals. But it was the ragged, guttural, personal lyrics of a lone guitarist sitting on a straight-back chair in a dimly lit corner of a squalid speakeasy that spoke to me as no other music had ever done before. And by the time we boarded the train for Nashville at the end of the week, I knew how I wanted to spend the rest of my life: writing songs, traveling the circuit, and playing the blues.

There was one other noteworthy aspect to our trip to Memphis. My mother and father didn’t fight the entire week. I don’t know whether they’d declared a truce or were inhibited by curious reporters and hotel staff, but they showed each other considerable respect. This was not the first time they’d observed an armistice. And during each of the previous ceasefires, I’d get my hopes up that the fighting was going to end for good. But just as I’d begin believing the fantasy, all hell would break loose again followed by bitter skirmishes lasting weeks on end.

And this time wasn’t any different. All the hoping and praying hadn’t changed a thing. My prayers for a peaceful holiday season had been answered with a resumption of hostilities featuring my mother’s customary threats and my father’s political calculations. I heard everything through the open door they no longer bothered slamming shut.

I’m through with your dalliances and empty promises to turn the page. I’ve told you a thousand times, Jim, the young men will be your downfall. One way or the other, it’ll get out—you can count on it. I’ll stay here ’til after New Year’s and then I’m taking Todd and we’re leaving Nashville for good. I’d pack up and leave tomorrow, but I think we owe Todd one last family Christmas.

I hope you’re not serious, Margaret.

Dead serious now, Jim. You promised me there’d be no more lovers if I followed you to Nashville and became first lady of Tennessee. We hadn’t even been here six months when the strangers started showing up after dark. Can’t deny it, Jim. The same pattern as before.

My father paused, crafting a response. Just for argument’s sake, let’s say you picked up and left with the boy. How’d we explain your leaving to the press?

That’s something you’ll have to work out, Jim. I didn’t cause this mess.

He paused again. Well then, let me run this by you. How about we say you’re suffering from an illness requiring a suspension of your official duties for a spell? Explain you’ll be heading back to the farm to rest and recuperate?

I see a big problem with that already, Mama said coldly.

What’s that?

I’ve made up my mind I’m not going back to the farm. I’d be seeing you every week or so. It’d just be picking at the scab.

For God’s sake, that’ll blow everything up! I can see the snarky headline now when the rumors make the rounds: ‘Hurricane Peters Out.’ . . . It’d be the death knell for a second term and for all I’ve been trying to do to help my people pull themselves up. It’s all about payback, isn’t it, Margaret?

Furthest thing from my mind, Jim. It breaks my heart thinking about the early days and what might have been. No. It’s about survival and sparing Todd from the fighting, from the spectacle of seeing his father cavorting around the mansion with young—No. It won’t be long, Jim, until Todd understands what’s going on. I thought long and hard about it before deciding to leave and start over far from the limelight, away from all the deception, the lies.

Again, just for argument’s sake, where would you and the boy go?

Far enough away to breathe again but close enough for Todd to have a father.

Anyplace in mind in particular? Warfield? McGill? Hurricane Creek?

No, I was thinking farther west. Across the river, maybe McKenzie, Camden, or Hollow Rock. I don’t want you getting any ideas I want an arm and a leg to keep your secrets. I don’t want anything of the kind. Just a small stipend until I can get work and make a simple life for Todd and me.

Get work doing what, Margaret? Think of your age . . . bumping up against forty-five next year.

Doing what makes me happy, Jim: teaching. I think you’ll agree I have a knack for it. Remember when you were a student at Miss Owings? You said I changed your life. And you know teacher’s just love hearing that.

Sunlight broke through the clouds for an instant as my father reminisced, I’d fallen in love with your beauty, with the song in your voice. I hung on your every word. Learning was so exciting, so easy back then, and I hated leaving you for West Point. The clouds overwhelmed the sun again as an edge returned to my father’s voice. If you’re hell-bent on following through on this, there’s nothing I can really do to stop you. But in return for helping you find a place and paying the rent, I need you to show me some flexibility in how I explain this debacle to the newspapers. I frankly don’t know just yet how I’ll deal with this, but I need your word you’ll show me some flexibility. Agreed?

Within reason, Jim. Agreed.

After a long silence honoring an undeclared cease-fire, my father broached the subject of Christmas. Since you want to make this a happy family occasion, how do you propose we finesse the holidays? Invite folks in to take some of the focus off us?

I’d prefer a low-key holiday, Jim. We don’t need any more stress than what we already have now. And I suspect our guests would quickly pick up on the tension between us.

Okay by me, he said and then paused briefly signaling a transition to another holiday topic. So what do you want to do about gifts? You want anything in particular?

Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps some jewelry. Earrings, a brooch, or even better, a locket to carry some of the good times close to the heart. . . . And you, Jim?

Can’t think of anything. How about my leaving it up to you?

You sure?

Sure. I could hear the sunlight returning to his voice. But if you really pressed me, I’d say you couldn’t go wrong with some quality cigars. And then the clouds returned. What do you think we should do about the boy? . . . I don’t have anything in mind, but since it’s our last Christmas together, I think it should be something special, Margaret, something to take the sting out of upending his life here. Any ideas?

My mother didn’t hesitate. He’s already told me, Jim. He said he wants a decent guitar. I don’t know why. We all like music but none of us is musically inclined. I’d have followed up, but I had guests arriving for a luncheon.

I suspect I know.

Well, why then?

My father must have thought better of divulging details of our forays onto Beale Street. Instead he said, How about we keep that for another day. Does he want anything else?

You know he’s never really asked for much. That’s all he mentioned.

Well, I’ll ask around and make sure we get the best we can find.

The informal truce held throughout the holiday season. And as I expected, Christmas Day was theater of the first order. I wouldn’t call it farce but more dark comedy because of the vindictive subtexts lurking just below the polite veneer. The curtain opened with the obligatory appearance at West End United before heading back to the mansion to exchange gifts in the private quarters.

As was customary, we always exchanged several inconsequential but useful gifts before turning to the grand finales. We always allowed my mother to open her big present first. Father extended his hand. Here you go, Margaret? Hope you’ll like ’em.

She carefully unwrapped the first of the two professionally decorated boxes and slowly lifted the lid revealing a set of gold diamond earrings. They’re beautiful, Jim! You really shouldn’t have.

Nonsense! my father interjected and smiled. And here’s a second.

My mother turned the long, thin box over several times in her hand. I hate to open it. The paper’s gorgeous.

Go ahead, Mama, open it! I urged. The suspense is killing me.

She toyed with the bow for a few seconds before finally beginning to unwrap the small box. Again, she slowly raised the lid and peered in. Oh my, Jim! She lifted a gold cable chain out of the box and held it out admiringly for us to see. I wish you hadn’t. It’s beautiful. Here, Todd, help me with the clasp.

And it truly was a remarkable piece of jewelry. Suspended from the chain was a diamond pendant—a single ribbon of brilliant gold looped and twisted into an elegant double heart pattern. One of the two hollow hearts sparkled with an array of shimmering diamonds, while the other added luminous depth and dimension to the design.

But having been privy to their recent conversation, I suspected my father was sending a final cutting message or two. My mother had asked for a locket to perhaps carry a small photograph of memories close to her heart. My father, however, opted for a hollow pendant incapable of holding anything. So for me the messages were clear. Choosing the pendant over a locket was his biting way of saying he didn’t believe there were any truly good times during their marriage. And the hollow double heart design signified his belief there was never any romantic love in their relationship either.

My mother never showed outward signs of anger or disappointment about the gift with its implied insults. She stuck close to the agreed-upon script. She handed my father his first gift. Okay, Jim, it’s your turn.

My father was never as appreciative of the fine art of Christmas wrapping as my mother. He tore into the paper and held up a highly decorative box brimming with fine cigars. Just what the doctor ordered, Margaret. Thanks so much. There’s enough here to share a smoke or two.

And I’m sure you will, she replied and then quickly moved on before poisoning the contrived atmosphere with her response. And here’s another present. Useful but I think you’ll like it nevertheless.

My father ripped the paper off the second gift and opened the box. He stood up, extended his arms, and held the lamb’s wool cardigan up against his chest. It’ll sure come in handy these cold days, and it looks like it fits just fine. How do I look?

As handsome as ever, my mother answered. Hope you like the color. If not, we can always swap it out for another.

Wouldn’t think of it. Fits well in the shoulders. It’s top quality and besides, navy’s my favorite color. Goes with anything.

Again, if I hadn’t overheard their plans for a final family Christmas, I’d have found this exchange of gifts believable. But after hearing their plotting, I knew to look for implied insults in her gifts as well. And as suspected, my mother got two twists of the knife with the sweater and the Cuban cigars. But how on earth could she be sending a rancorous message with a top-of-the-line Alan Paine cardigan? Was it because she bought it rather than knitted it herself? Was she reminding my father how much love she’d invested in him over so many years?

I recalled my mother telling me the touching story of how she’d knitted my father a cardigan while he was away fighting in the Spanish-American War. She said it was long before there was ever any talk of marriage. She confessed she’d never been much of a religious person but when she’d knit, she’d think, ‘Keep him safe.’ And when she’d purl, she’d whisper, ‘Bring him home alive.’ She explained the cardigan was a simple prayer to someone somewhere who listened and intervened on her behalf.

And while I’d describe the message in the sweater as sentimental, the one in the cigars was blatantly vicious and sexual. She was attacking his manhood head-on. Oh, she bought his preferred Cuban brand, the Hoyo de Monterrey, but not his choice vitola. His favorite length was an eight-inch double corona, and she hurled her phallic slur with a robusto barely half the corona’s length.

Well, we’ve saved the best for last, Father said. He winked at me and added, Todd, why don’t you go over and check behind the sofa there and see what Santa brought this year?

Although I knew what was probably hiding behind the couch, I knew I should act surprised. And sure enough, there it was—a mahogany Gibson six-string. I rushed back to my chair and began strumming randomly. It’s just what I wanted: wide neck, twelve frets at the body, just like the guitars we saw on Beale—

I caught myself midsentence, realizing I’d just stepped in it—tipping my mother off to my whereabouts during the mysterious bachelor outings. I quickly glanced over at my mother, who was quietly staring daggers at my father. I suspect she didn’t explode this time because it was Christmas and it was now water over the dam. We were leaving Nashville for good just after New Year’s.

My father shook his head and quickly changed the subject. You’re gonna need lessons, Todd. He looked over at my mother. Once you find a teacher for him, Margaret, let me know how much it is a month, and I’ll send the money out wherever y’all end up. He turned toward me and said, Think of the lessons as part of our Christmas gift to you, Todd.

I walked over and kissed my mother on the cheek. Thank you. The guitar means so much. I then moved over to my father and gave him a big hug. And thanks for the lessons too. I sat back down and resumed strumming. My mother and father smiled knowingly at each other, satisfied they’d succeeded in at least softening the blow of their pending separation.

While they viewed the guitar as a gift associated with happiness, I saw it quite differently. For me the Gibson was a symbol of sorrow, a reminder of my parents’ years of fighting and our last scripted Christmas together. I immediately sensed the heartbreak infused in the wood. I not only considered the instrument a Christmas present, but in another more perverse way, a gift, an opportunity already steeped with the blues. It would now be up to me to coax the suffering out of the mahogany with a pick, a slide, and some heavy-gauge strings.

2

UP UNTIL THE last minute I expected the Governor to call with a reprieve. Even though my mother had finished packing, I held out hope she’d somehow reconcile with my father before the caravan of moving trucks appeared at the rear of the mansion. I had mixed emotions about leaving. While I sure wouldn’t miss my parents’ fighting, I would regret leaving my school. And it wasn’t because of a desire to delve deeper into Pythagoras or Dickens, but because of my classmates and my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Deane, with whom I’d fallen madly and adulterously in love.

But as the mantle clock chimed seven, my mother knocked, alerting me the movers had finished stowing our belongings and it was time to leave. I took one last wistful look about the bedroom, picked up my guitar case, and then dawdled downstairs to the dimly lit service entrance, where my mother, father, the lady’s maid, Bessie, and our chauffeur awaited my arrival. I could see through the open door it was pitch black outside, thus fulfilling my father’s request that we exit out the back entrance sometime after dark to avoid the press.

I gave my father a big hug. He held me out at arm’s length and gazed into my eyes. I’ll miss you, boy. Study hard, and most of all, take care of your mother.

I will. And next time I see you, I’ll be playing my Gibson. I promise you that.

Can’t wait to hear you, Todd. You’ll do me proud.

My father turned and embraced my mother for old time’s sake. Once you get settled, send me the information for the monthly payments.

She pushed back and replied, I’ll have that all figured out by the end of the week. I’ll let you know then.

And one other thing, Margaret. I got to thinking, if reporters show up snooping around your new place, just refuse to speak with ’em. Refer ’em back here to me. I’ll take care of it. No sense having you dealing with their weaselly questions. They’re just trying to pry a sensational headline out of you. They’re all downright bastards.

I know. It’s better leaving all this unsaid. Just think what it would do to Todd.

And not to mention my reelection chances. . . .

My mother flashed a sardonic smile, turned, and exited onto the west portico without saying another word. But this time devoted Bessie didn’t follow her. My father wanted the lady’s maid standing beside him during our departure to symbolically fire a final parting shot: Your decision to leave has consequences, my dear. And as we would discover later on, he was also telegraphing how he planned to handle the press when they learned of our scandalous departure from Nashville.

Following my mother’s wishes, our chauffeur didn’t stop until we rolled up in front of Mrs. Griffith’s Hotel just after daybreak the following morning. The white frame structure was an elegant two-story Greek revival with banistered porches extending the length of both floors. As we dragged our numb bodies out of the motorcar, the resident hound began barking and raced down the front steps to greet us. A petite, silver-haired lady appeared at the top of the steps. She was vigorously wiping her hands on her blue feed-sack apron. Welcome, she drawled. Y’all made good time. Just leave all your things there. My husband will get ’em once he’s finished shavin’. So come on in now and freshen up a bit while the chicken’s fryin’ and the biscuits brownin’.

As I inhaled my hearty breakfast of fried chicken, biscuits, and milk gravy, Mr. Griffith proudly explained the mythology behind the mysterious rock formation that lends its name to the town of Hollow Rock. Geologists, astronomers, and even astrologers have inspected it. Mystified all of ’em. Never seen anything like it. Don’t know what it’s made of. They just all agree it’s big. Some four hundred feet long, thirteen wide, and twelve high. Several of ’em say it’s a meteorite. Doesn’t seem to be attached to anything. Nowhere near any bluffs. Couldn’t have fallen off anything like a ledge or somethin’. Kinda sits all alone in a large bowl in the woods. Old-timers tell us it was a lot bigger way back when but seems to be sinkin’. There’s been some serious diggin’ out there around it but they can’t find a bottom. So, you see, it can’t be an outcroppin’.

Any idea how old it is? I asked, excited by the prospect of living near a natural phenomenon.

Eons, boy. Eons. My daddy said the natives used it in prehistoric times as a shelter and a ceremonial ground, and I know there’s some truth to it. Every time they go diggin’ out there, they turn up spear points, pipes, pottery, trade beads and such.

To my mother’s chagrin, I interrupted Mr. Griffith. Where is this place? I’ve got to see it!

Well, you walk south there to the railroad tracks. You’ll see a path. Take a left and head east. When ya come to a clearin’ on your left, you should see a trail headed north. Take it and the hollow rock will be on your right up by the creek. Can’t miss it. Sits all alone in the trees. Big hole in the side of it that runs all the way through. You’ll see. And with all the artifacts they’ve found you can just imagine while your walkin’ around out there that hollow rock’s been a popular place from time immemorial.

Why’s that, you think? I asked.

Mr. Griffith smiled knowingly and replied, "First of all because of the hole. Prehistoric folk could crawl in for shelter especially during